


and best friends may not mean best friends forever

by rockygetsrolling



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Betrayal, Brotherly Angst, But like barely there, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Grief, Heartbreak, I think?, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Jan. 5th, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), blink and you'll miss it type beat, technochat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockygetsrolling/pseuds/rockygetsrolling
Summary: His hammer comes down over and over again, slamming the enchantment through the dark metal of his axe--his new axe--trying to ignore the hollow rattling in his ribs as he struggles to breathe. Why is he struggling? He’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.(If he says it enough, maybe he’ll believe it.)-or, the aftermath of Tommy's betrayal, and Technoblade's grief at having been left behind again.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 211





	and best friends may not mean best friends forever

**Author's Note:**

> (vanishes for a year)  
> (comes back with another new fandom and FUEL)
> 
> i literally wrote this in an hour. today fucking killed me. tommyinnit i am begging you to grow brain cells.

There’s a special kind of hell, Techno thinks, for those who wear their heart on their sleeve.

It feels like days since he slept last, even though it’s only been a few hours. The world is whipping around him too fast to process, his feet in constant danger of being swept out from under him by the inertia. He should probably be sleeping, he thinks, his whole body aches from the speed of the day, but he can’t. He can’t. Tomorrow, he has a country to raze to the ground, has a mission to complete.

God, he loves it when he has an attainable goal in mind. It’s what keeps his sometimes-tenuous connection to the world online, it’s what keeps his feet moving forward. He always has a goal, something to strive towards. 

He does not look at his notebook. It is filled with past goals, ones he has already achieved. 

(There is a name in there that lingers in his mind like honey on the tongue. Sweet, golden, home--but the bite of arsenic chases it, and he resists the urge to vomit.) 

His hammer comes down over and over again, slamming the enchantment through the dark metal of his axe--his new axe--trying to ignore the hollow rattling in his ribs as he struggles to breathe. Why is he struggling? He’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.

(if he says it enough, maybe he’ll believe it.)

He wants to throw everything he has out into the snow and scream. 

(He’s okay.)

His hands ache. His throat burns. God, his stomach is fucking hollow.

(He’s okay.)

The hammer slips from his leather-clad hands and clatters across the axe, splintering the blade from a crucial point--the epicenter. It falls and rattles against the planks that make his floor, but Techno does not bend to pick it up again.

He stares at the blade, throbbing with magic, a small, easily repairable crack reaching out from its innocent resting place to mock him. 

(He’s okay.)

(He’s okay.)

(He’s--)

The voices are so loud. They’re shrieking, laughing, calling him for his own lies. He is a liar. Technoblade the deceitful, the dishonorable, the living weapon, the not-human-enough, the idealist, the destroyer, the feared.

Technoblade the lover. The brother. The homemaker.

Technoblade. The one left behind. 

He picks up the axe and throws it with all the strength he has left in him, throws it against the concrete walls of his home hard enough that the brick he aimed for splinters, cracks like spiderwebs extending through its base, and he puts his hands over his ears as his footing becomes unsure.

His head hurts.

_ failure failure failure you FAILED you trusted and for WHAT and all YOU DID WAS GET HURT do you never LEARN WE CAN’T TRUST ANYONE he left you you weren’t enough you did nothing to STOP HIM KILL HIM DESTROY HIM BLOOD BLOOD DEATH BLOOD BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD PAINT LMANBURG WITH HIS BLOOD  _

“SHUT UP!” 

Techno hunches over at the waist, his hands still over his ears as he rocks himself from foot to foot, trying to calm himself down, trying to breathe again as the inertia of the day threatens to slam his body to the floor. God, he can’t do this again. He can’t. He’ll fucking die if he has to do this again. 

The voices are louder now. 

“SHUT  _ UP! _ ” he yells again, and it’s more of a wail now. “I  _ KNOW _ ALL I DO IS MESS THIS UP, YOU DON’T HAVE TO REMIND ME!” 

A voice in his head pipes up through the mess.  _ Tommy-- _

Techno sinks to his knees and rocks back and forth, his breath coming in heaving waves as he tries to find one thing, anything, to ground him.

His nails begin to dig into the sides of his head, but he pulls away before he draws blood or leaves marks. He promised Phil he’d stop doing that when he had breakdowns like this, he promised--

Phil. Phil is the only one left. Phil, god, where is Phil, he wishes Phil was here but he’s not, he’s out adventuring to get what he needs while Techno kneels in his cabin and tries not to drive his own head through the goddamned concrete walls because his heart hurts so much, how can anyone ever take this much heartbreak, how can he keep doing this to himself when all he wants is to be alone and simply exist, he wants to vomit, he wants to fall apart and go outside and bury himself in the snow and let the elements claim every last one of the lives he has left. 

Tommy. 

A cry wrenches from his lungs before he can stop it, and he sinks forward so his forehead presses against his floor as he sobs.

Tommy, Tommy,  _ Tommy _ .

He would have given the world, anything at all, for him to be back right now, to be home and laughing and playfully stealing his things, to be building ridiculous towers in the yard that had no strategical purpose, for him to be making snowmen and tossing snowballs at him on their supply runs and to be goofing off with the turtles in the farm. He would have given  _ anything _ .

His axe. His hands. A canon life.  _ His  _ canon life. 

“ _ I can hold them off while you escape, Tommy. _ ” 

Technoblade lies on the floor and pushes his face into his cape and wails, brokenly. It’s been so long since he’s  _ wailed _ about anything, but god if he doesn’t feel as raw as sulfur on the throat or an arrow to the wrist. 

“ _ You can make your decisions and I respect that. I just hope you don’t come to regret it _ .”

Techno wonders if it’s possible to shatter to pieces and have someone come and put you back together. Would he even want to be put together again? Probably not. The blade of his axe stares at him accusingly across the floor. Shards of uneven netherite litter the floor around it, and Techno finds that he cannot make himself care. 

Tomorrow he will raze L’Manburg to the ground. 

Tomorrow he will spare Tommy. No matter what Dream tries to get him to do. 

Tomorrow, he will show the world the Technolade they all want to see.

Tonight, he will cry on his floor and miss his brother. Tonight, he will fall asleep on an empty stomach and he will try not to dream of honey and butter on fresh baked bread. 

Tonight, he will be broken, and he’ll let his sadness seep out around him like a sacrifice. 

  
“ _ I trusted him with everything. _ ”


End file.
